


I slept with Pete Wentz, and all I got was some girly underwear

by Lenore



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College, Crossdressing, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-29
Updated: 2009-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU in which Patrick joins a fraternity for the killer bands and gets more than he bargained for in the form of Pete Wentz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I slept with Pete Wentz, and all I got was some girly underwear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://megyal.livejournal.com/profile)[**megyal**](http://megyal.livejournal.com/)'s [Crossdressing Festlet](http://megyal.livejournal.com/269629.html).

There were many things Patrick had imagined about going off to college: classes he'd blow off, fun he'd have, beers he'd drink. Winding up stripped down to his underwear, lined up with a dozen similarly half-naked guys, for the amusement of a bunch of assholes…well, that really wasn't what he'd pictured at all.

"You think we're gonna make it?" Neil Larsen, fellow Chi Kappa Chi pledge, whispers anxiously in Patrick's ear.

Patrick shrugs. "It is the last day. So, you know, probably." _Unless one of us snaps and goes on a homicidal rampage first._ He keeps this thought—or possibly it's more like an idea—to himself.

"All right, ladies," Brett Davis, Chi Kappa Chi pledge master and budding genius of psychological torture, claps his hands. "This is the big finale. T minus one hour and counting until you're full-fledged members. So time to strut your stuff. Show us what you've got. Deeter, crank up the music."

A moment later "…Baby One More Time" starts booming from the speakers. A collective groan goes up from the pledges. Brett Davis smirks like the dickhead he is. Patrick hates the universe, every last asshole in this fraternity, and Britney Spears, not necessarily in that order.

"Come on, girls," Brett hectors them. "Swing those hips. Shake those asses."

For a moment, Patrick genuinely considers mutiny. It's been a week of boot-camp-like sleep deprivation, stupid pranks, and humiliations galore. Everyone has a breaking point, and Patrick suspects that being forced to prance around in his underwear is his.

_You're doing it for the music,_ he reminds himself. _Music, music, music, music, music._

He and the rest of the idiots being hazed drag their heels in a dispirited little circuit from one end of the room to the other.

"You call that sexy?" Brett snorts. "Work it, girls, work it."

_Music!_ Patrick thinks shrilly, so he won't go charging over and punch Brett Davis is his stupid mouth.

Although, honestly, Patrick is beginning to doubt that even four years of absolutely killer bands is worth all this bullshit. He's beginning to wish he'd never listened to his stupid roommate when he said, "Dude, I know you think fraternities are, like, the spawn of Satan or something, but The Aura is playing at the CKC house, and that band totally rules."

Patrick had been skeptical, even as he was letting his roommate drag him along to the fraternity. He was pretty sure he'd seen a Madonna CD among his roommate's jewel cases, so the guy's tastes were pretty suspect. The roommate strenuously insisted that Patrick had just hallucinated that copy of _Like A Prayer_. And, hey, maybe he had, because The Aura rocked like a…really rocking thing. Patrick stood right up front by the makeshift stage, and the music blasted in his ears, and he thrashed around in the hard press of close-packed bodies, sweating pouring off him in the August swelter until he was wet straight through to his skin.

After the band finished their set, he waited in line at the keg, light-headed from the heat and the total fucking awesomeness of the music. "Is it always like this?" he asked the guy, Deeter as he learned later, dispensing plastic cups of foamy Miller Draft. "The music, I mean."

"Wentz has a 'vision.'" Deeter made air quotes. "Dude thinks he's, like, Gods gift to picking bands or something. Don't you, Wentz?" He turned his head, and Patrick followed his gaze, and his mouth was suddenly even drier than it had been before.

Pete lounged against the wall, one leg bent, cup in hand. He was wearing the tiniest t-shirt Patrick had ever seen on anyone who wasn't a toddler, an ugly print in purple with streaks of glitter, rucked up at his waist, showing of a strip of golden, inked skin. His messy dark hair fell in his face, and his eyes looked almost black in the dim light, and wow, did he have a pretty mouth. Patrick's cheeks went hot at the thought, and he involuntarily jerked his hand back as if afraid of being burned, sloshing beer over the rim of his cup.

"You should come back," Pete said, his gaze resting so heavily on Patrick it was like being touched. "Gonna have kick-ass bands all week."

Something uncurled in Patrick's belly, electric and too hot, and all he could manage was to nod dumbly.

Patrick did go back, the next night and the next night and the night after that, each band better than the last. At the end of the week, Pete sidled over to him and slung an arm around his neck. "So, Trick." They'd progressed to the stupid nickname stage of their completely casual acquaintanceship. "You like what you see? You gonna sign on? 'Cause this is it for the open parties this semester. From now on, you want in, you got to drink the Chi Kappa Chi Kool-aid."

He whooped a laugh, showing off huge teeth. There was a slightly manic spark in his eyes that Patrick had already come to consider familiar. Okay, so it was possible that the music wasn't the only reason Patrick had decided to rush the fraternity.

That seems like one big eye-roll now as Patrick thumps around in his underwear, refusing to sashay on general principle. Pete hasn't said three words to him since this whole stupid pledging thing began, and whenever their gazes happen to meet, there's a cool distance in Pete's eyes. For all Patrick knows, he pulls this flirtatious bait and switch all the time to dupe hapless idiots into pledging his stupid fraternity. Patrick adds "Pete-fucking-Wentz" to the big list of things he hates the hell out of.

The music stops, and Brett's grating nasal voice booms out, "Okay, guys, who's gonna get the prize? Which one of these babes is the Chi Kappa Chi Miss Pledge Class 2009?"

The brothers whistle and catcall and shout out various names.

Brett looks to Pete. "Dude, you're president. You get the final vote. Who's it gonna be?"

Pete purses his lips thoughtfully. "I think…" He glances down the line of pledges, all of whom are no doubt praying as Patrick is to whatever God there might be in this forsaken universe not to be the one. "I'm going to have to go with Stump."

Patrick ducks his head, heat rushing into his cheeks. Pete-fucking-Wentz zooms to the top of Patrick's list of people who need to die _right the fuck now_.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a winner," Brett Davis hoots. He grabs Patrick by the arm and manhandles him up to the front of the room. "Deeter, show our girl what she's won."

Deeter goes thumping out of the room, as loud and ungainly as a drunken Clydesdale, and comes back brandishing a cheerleader outfit, red shiny material with gold trim, sleeveless top and short pleated skirt.

"Oh, fuck no," Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest, sweeping a disgruntled glare from Deeter to Brett to Pete, practically daring them to argue with him. His palms itch, that's how much he wants to punch someone in the face.

"Hey, look, dude. Pompoms!" Deeter swishes them at Patrick, and that's it. That's all Patrick can take. He lunges, his hands curled into fists.

Pete smoothly intercepts him before the well-deserved pounding of Deeter can begin. "Come on. You can change and then make your grand entrance." He hustles Patrick out of the room and down the hall and into the tiny half bath.

"You're an asshole," Patrick declares, the moment the door closes behind them.

"And you're adorable when you turn all pink and want to kill me." Pete smiles, big and infuriatingly endearing, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Patrick's anger slips sideways, despite his best efforts to hang on to it. "Not fucking fair," he mutters under his breath. He's not even talking about having to wear a dress.

"Yeah," Pete says agreeably. "Life, man. Sucks. But, hey." His face brightens. "I can do your makeup for you. At least, you'll be pretty."

"Yes," Patrick deadpans. "That will make everything better." He adds meanly, "I'm totally not letting you make me look like a drunken raccoon the way you do."

Not that this is especially true. Pete's ubiquitous eyeliner is actually rather skillfully applied, artfully smudged to give his eyes a smoky look that's...well, hot. But whatever. Patrick is having a bad day. He believes in sharing.

Pete doesn't take offense. He just tilts his head and studies Patrick more closely. "Nope. I'd go with a natural look for you, Rickster, play up that peaches-and-cream complexion, and that soft, pink mouth."

Heat uncoils in Patrick's stomach, making the slow trip south. Pissed. He's supposed to be _pissed_ at Pete. He huffs weakly, "This isn't funny!"

Pete considers. "Yeah. It really kind of is."

"Easy for you to say," Patrick grumbles. "You're not the one who has to wear a dress."

Pete snorts. "Seriously, dude? Who do you think was Miss Chi Kappa Chi Pledge Class 2005?"

"Does that mean I have to keep on dressing in girl clothes the whole time I'm in this stupid fraternity?" Patrick says snidely.

And, yeah, he's being a total brat now, because Pete's girl jeans, barely clinging to his hips like an invitation to get rid of them entirely, have starred in more than a few of Patrick's favorite fantasies.

"Yep," Pete says with a cheerful smirk. "It's all camisoles and thigh-highs and stilettos for the rest of your college career. But here. You can start with this." He slips the cheerleader costume off the hanger, undoes the zipper and holds it out to Patrick.

"I'm going to look like an idiot," Patrick complains.

"You're going to look so fucking adorable I'm not going to be able to stand it," Pete corrects him. "And, hey, you're wearing boxer briefs, so no embarrassing underwear lines."

His gaze drifts down to said boxer briefs, fastening on Patrick's _crotch_. Suddenly, Patrick notices how close the room is, tiny and airless, the two of them standing near enough that their electrons can hobnob, and Pete is staring at Patrick's _crotch_. Patrick loses the knack for simple respiration for a moment. His blood can't seem to decide if it wants to rush to his cheeks or pool in his groin—which, just to make the point perfectly clear, Pete Wentz is _staring at_.

"Here. Let me help you with this," Pete says, urging Patrick to lift his arms. He slides the dress down over Patrick's head.

Pete's hands brush Patrick's elbows, his hair, shoulders, sides, hips as he tugs the skirt down. He's pressed so close that Patrick can feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton of the dress. So close that Patrick can smell him. Unwashed college boy should not be nearly so arousing.

"Turn around," Pete says.

Patrick obeys on autopilot. The air simmers in his lungs. He doubts very seriously that he's getting any oxygen to his brain, and it's possible that all-out hyperventilation could set in at any moment. Pete reaches low down Patrick's back, right where it curves into his ass, and it doesn't matter that it's just to zip him up. Patrick sucks in his breath and starts to shake.

Pete doesn't seem to notice, too busy wrestling with the finicky zipper. It gets caught, and he threatens it, "Come on, you fucker!"

The zipper gives at last, and Pete moves his thumb ahead of it, stroking along Patrick's bare back. To keep it from getting stuck again, maybe? Patrick really doesn't know why he's doing it. He just knows what it's doing to _him_. His cock is hard and aching, his lungs burning and empty. Pete smoothes his hands over the fabric, straightening the skirt. Patrick is in such a turned-on daze that it takes him a moment too long to blurt out, "Wait!"

Pete's hand is already skimming over his hard on. His eyes go wide and, shit, stricken.

"It's not—" Patrick starts to babble, but he doesn't know what to say, because it really is. It's exactly what Pete thinks.

"Trick," Pete says softly. "Oh, shit. Sorry. I— I didn't..._know_." He hooks a hand behind Patrick's neck and rests their foreheads together. "'s okay. 's okay. I'm gonna take care of it."

Patrick has only been staring at Pete with _pleasepleaseplease_ in his eyes since the moment they met, not exactly subtle, and really, how could Pete not know? But maybe this is something he should keep to himself. A second later he can't speak anyway, because Pete is shoving his hand into his boxers.

Pete curls his fingers around Patrick's cock and gives a tentative pull. Patrick moans and shoves his hips demandingly against Pete's hand.

"Shit, yeah," Pete encourages him.

He works Patrick's cock free of his underwear. Patrick whimpers and yanks up the hem of the skirt to get it out of the way. And also, yeah, he wants to watch. Pete starts to jack him, squeezing tighter on the upstroke, rubbing his thumb against that sensitive spot under the head on the downstroke. Patrick's cock is blood dark and glistening, slipping wetly through Pete's fist.

"Fuck." Pete presses his face against Patrick's neck. "Trick." His breath comes hot and moist against Patrick's skin, making him shiver.

Patrick bites his lip to keep from making noise. Pete twists his wrist just the right way, and that's it. That's all. Pete makes a mad grab for toilet paper, and Patrick finishes in it, shaking, red-faced, sucking down burning lungfuls of air.

Pete brushes the sweaty strands of hair back from Patrick's forehead. "No one's going to know. I'm going to take care of it."

Patrick blinks at him. He's pretty sure if Pete "takes care of it" any more than he already has Patrick will melt into a puddle on the floor. Pete turns him around, unzips the dress and pulls it up over his head.

He kisses Patrick on the cheek. "Come out when you don't look quite so much like you just shot your load."

Pete takes the costume and leaves the bathroom. Patrick hears his loud hyena cackle, "Okay, just…no. That dude does not rock a dress. We're gonna need a new Miss Chi Kappa Chi Pledge Class 2009."

Patrick pulls up his boxers and checks them for any telltale evidence. Thankfully, there isn't any. He runs water in the sink, splashes his face and stares at himself in the mirror. His expression fairly screams: "I just had sex."

He works on a stupid excuse about food poisoning and those chilli dogs they had for lunch to explain why he'll be spending the next hour or so holed up in the bathroom.

* * *

A long night of partying wraps up Hell Week. Patrick moves through it like a sleepwalker, the same thought going around and around his head: _Pete Wentz jerked me off_. But then he glances over at Pete, who is leaning against the wall and chatting up a blond, blue-eyed Beta Mu sorority sister, and he wonders if maybe he didn't dream the whole thing.

Fraternities are freaky institutions. Patrick doubts he'll ever think any differently about it. The moment pledging is over, it's as if a switch has been flipped. Psychological torture turns into to everyone being suddenly all buddy-buddy. Brad Davis claps Patrick on the back and hands him a big plastic cup of…well, what smells like about fourteen different kinds of booze. "So, dude, hear you're really into music. That's cool. I'm, like, totally a Kanye fan. What do you think of him?"

He regards Patrick with friendly curiosity, as if he wasn't threatening to make Patrick eat bugs just a few days ago.

By dawn, pretty much the entire fraternity has passed out. Patrick wakes up wedged behind the sofa; he has no idea how he got there. His mouth is dry and tastes like something died in there. He crawls out feet first, his head pounding, stirring up dust that has probably been there since the fraternity was founded. He sneezes fitfully, pulls himself unsteadily to his feet and lurches off toward the bathroom. He needs to piss in the worst way and, hey, he could really use something to eat.

He finds a handful of guys in the kitchen, slumped at the table, looking like death only half warmed over.

"Unhh," Deeter says, pushing a cereal box at Patrick, his pre-verbal way of saying _have some breakfast_.

Patrick pours himself a bowl of Captain Crunch, sloshes milk on it, and makes his way to the coffee maker. He wishes he could just insert an IV in his arm and mainline the caffeine. He probably still wouldn't feel human, but maybe he'd be more awake, at least. He's standing at the counter, or really leaning against it for support, huddled over his mug, when Pete comes sweeping in, practically vibrating with energy, as if he's been up for hours. The black circles under his eyes are a good inch deep, so maybe he never actually went to sleep at all.

"Dudes, who wants to go play soccer in the mud?" He claps his hands and rubs them together, looking around the room expectantly.

"Unhh!" Deeter declares, which apparently also means _fuck you_.

"Okay, I'm gonna let you guys think it over," Pete says brightly.

He sidles up to Patrick, pours himself coffee and lingers there, leaning against the counter. He's shirtless, and his thin sweatpants are barely clinging on by their fingernails, as if his hips are just too slippery to hold them up. He stands close enough to Patrick that their elbows brush. Suddenly, Patrick feels wide awake.

"Hey," Pete says, his voice low and rough.

"Hey." The word catches in Patrick's throat.

"Have fun last night?"

Patrick nods vaguely. He has little to no memory of the last twelve hours of his life.

"Good, good," Pete says absently. He takes another sip of his coffee.

Patrick toys nervously with the handle of his mug. He has no idea what he's supposed to do, if he should pretend that nothing ever happened, that there was no handjob in the bathroom. Or…what? Flirt? Ask Pete out? Who knows what goes on behind the closed doors of fraternity houses. Maybe the brothers go around jacking each other off all the time, like it's no big deal.

"Dude," Pete says, nodding meaningfully at the door.

Patrick takes a deep breath and waits a moment and then follows. Pete is waiting for him in the hall.

"So, um." Patrick's hands feel clammy, and he holds onto his mug extra carefully so it doesn't go sliding out of his sweaty grasp. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah." Pete's gaze doesn't quite meet Patrick's, fastening on a spot just past Patrick's shoulder. "I was wondering if you might, you know, want to hang out in my room later?"

Patrick's heart thuds wildly in his chest. He tries not to sound overeager as he says "yeah, sure, you know," but he doesn't quite manage it.

"I got you something," Pete blurts out and shoves the gift into Patrick's hand.

It's fabric, soft and slippery and fragile feeling to the touch. Patrick's hungover brain needs a moment to sort out that it's a pair of black silk panties.

Pete quickly adds, "I thought you could wear them. You know, when you come hang out tonight." He meets Patrick's eye hopefully.

Patrick has no idea what to say to this, but his head starts to nod of its own volition.

Pete breaks into a bright smile. "Cool! So, later?"

Patrick's head goes right on nodding, even after Pete has walked away.

* * *

If Patrick had been asked—called up in one of those random phone polls or something— whether there was anything that could ruin sex with the hot guy he'd been crushing on for weeks, he would have said no. Or possibly just laughed his ass off. But as he tramps home to his dorm, all he can think about are the black panties shoved as deep into the pocket of his jeans as he can get them. Fuck. That whole scene in the bathroom hadn't been about Patrick at all. It had been about the stupid _cheerleader costume_. Pete Wentz has a freakin' _fetish_ for crossdressers. By the time Patrick is climbing the stairs to his room, he's as grumpy as a guy who's about to get laid can possibly be.

He comes thumping through the door. His roommate is sprawled out on his bed, in a heap of textbooks and photocopied syllabi. He raises an eyebrow. No doubt Patrick looks like someone who woke up wedged behind a sofa with no memory of how he got there. He ignores his roommate's questioning look and trudges straight through to the shower.

Patrick turns the water up as close to scalding as the institutional hot water heater will get it and scrubs off the fraternity house grime. And the thing is: he has options. He can call Pete back and make up an excuse about coming down with the twenty-four hour plague. Or he can just not show. Or he can ditch the underwear and still go for the sex. He can make Pete choose, him or the panties.

He pulls on some clean clothes and hides the jeans with the panties still crammed in the pocket beneath a mound of dirty t-shirts in his clothes basket. He throws himself onto his bed and picks up his bio notebook and stares at his all-but-indecipherable handwriting in a desultory effort to learn something until his roommate says, "Dining hall?" Then he scrambles up like a man reprieved and jams his feet into his sneakers.

It's chicken frisbees today, which in the land of cafeteria food is actually a good thing. Patrick snags brownies for dessert. He figures the sugar will help burn off the alcohol. He and the roommate find a table to themselves, and the roommate rattles on about _On The Road_. He totally has Kerouac on the brain lately. Patrick nods along and murmurs the occasional "really?" and the non-Wentz-ness of it all is oddly soothing. Occasionally, though, a stray thought will float through his head: _Pete Wentz touched my cock_ or, more distractingly, _Pete Wentz wants me to wear girl panties for him._ He does his best to push these thoughts away.

They head back to their room after they're done eating, and Patrick picks up his bio homework again, trying to actually concentrate this time around. He's two minutes into cytokinesis when his phone rings. He checks the number, sits bolt upright and answers, "Hey."

"Hey," Pete says back.

There's a long, awkward pause. Patrick seems to have forgotten how to think in words.

"So," Pete says. "It's later."

Three little syllables really shouldn't have the power to make Patrick hard, but then Pete Wentz is a study in the unlikely.

"Okay," Patrick says, swallowing hard, adjusting himself in his jeans.

"Cool." Pete sounds like he's smiling.

Patrick hangs up, lust-dazed. "I, uh." He clears his throat. "I have to go back over to the house."

His roommate shakes his head. "Dude, I really can't believe _you_ ended up in a fraternity."

He's not the only one who's shocked.

Patrick makes it to the first landing before he has second thoughts about the panties. He skids to a stop, his sneakers making a loud squeak on the linoleum, and hightails it back up to his room. His roommates glances up questioningly from his book.

"Uh. Forgot something," Patrick tells him, trying not to look a dirty perv, probably not succeeding.

He hurries to the closet, grabs the jeans out of the clothes basket and whips the panties from his pocket. He locks himself in the bathroom and changes into them, determinedly not looking in the mirror.

"Later," Patrick calls out to his roommate as he races off to the fraternity house.

Patrick can honestly say he's never given a thought to how it might feel to wear lingerie. The short answer is: weird. The panties sit low on his hips, not where he's used to having his underwear. The silk clings to his cock, making him hyper aware of every slip and slide against his skin as he walks along. That's really kind of…distracting. Fuck. If Pete-fucking-Wentz ends up giving him an actual fetish for women's clothes, Patrick is going to kill him.

After he's had sex with him a few (dozen) times first, of course.

Patrick says "hey" to the guys he passes on his way into the house and up the stairs. He knocks at Pete's door, his palms damp from nervousness.

The door snaps open, as if Pete has been waiting right next to it. "Hey," he says, moving back to let Patrick in. He looks as jumpy as Patrick feels.

Patrick glances around the room. It's a comfortable size for a single. Books stand in piles on the floor. The desk is covered in photocopied articles and typed papers. Apparently, Pete is a far more eager student than Patrick. The bed is full size, tucked into a corner. Patrick quickly looks away from it, certain he's blushing.

There's music on, and Patrick moves over to the CD player. The panties dip lower on his hips, and he bites his lip, trying to ignore the sensation. He picks up a jewel case to give himself something to do. "Oh, hey, Saves The Day." His voice cracks a little. "They're pretty cool."

Pete nods absently. "Yeah."

They stand there awkwardly eyeing one another.

At last, Pete goes to sit down on the bed, patting the mattress beside him. Patrick stumbles over to the bed and sinks down next to him. He swallows, not just once, but at least three times. His mouth is still just as dry.

"Can I—" Pete starts, "Oh, fuck it."

He cups Patrick's jaw in his hand and kisses him. Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat and grabs at Pete's shoulders and kisses back frantically. Fucking finally.

"Yeah," Pete mutters, because apparently Patrick said that last part out loud. "Are you—" He curls his hand around Patrick's hip, stroking with his thumb. "Do you have them on?"

Patrick nods mutely.

"How does it feel?" Pete rubs Patrick's dick through his jeans. The damp silk catches on Patrick's skin, stroking the length of his erection.

Patrick's eyes fly shut, and he whimpers. Fuck. He never expected it to feel _that_ good.

"God," Pete mutters hotly against Patrick's neck. "The things I want to do to you."

Patrick nods. Pete can do anything he wants. And later, much later, after Patrick has gotten laid, at least a couple of times, they can talk about this lingerie kink of Pete's, set some ground rules. That's the plan. _After._ Definitely after.

Yet somehow Patrick big stupid mouth doesn't get the memo. "I can't do this every time," he hastily blurts out. "The underwear, I mean. I just—"

Pete sits back, his forehead pinched with confusion. "Um. Okay?"

Patrick frowns. "Okay? That's it?"

Pete shrugs. "Sure. Whatever you want."

"What I want?" Patrick's frown deepens. "You mean, you thought— This was for me?"

Pete slants a smile. "Dude. You totally got turned on when I put that dress on you."

"I got turned on because you were touching me!" Patrick says, exasperated. "And looking at me! I'm eighteen! That's what happens!"

Pete smiles wolfishly. "Let's make it happen some more, huh?" He surges against Patrick, kissing in a flurry.

"I thought," Patrick says breathlessly as Pete nibbles along his jaw, "in the bathroom, what you did, it was because of the dress."

Pete shakes his head. "All you, baby." He presses his face into the curve of Patrick's neck.

"But—" Patrick's head tilts back as Pete sucks a spot beneath his jaw. "You didn't give me the time of day the whole time I was pledging this stupid fraternity and then—"

Pete inches his hand beneath Patrick's t-shirt. "Trick, Trick. I'm the president. I'm supposed to be impartial and shit. I couldn't go around looking like I wanted to jump you. Wouldn't be right."

Patrick pulls back and makes a skeptical face at him.

"Dude. I've got, like, responsibilities."

Patrick snorts.

"Yeah? Well. Wait until you're president."

Patrick snorts louder.

Pete cracks a grin at him. "You're totally going to be president. I'm telling you."

Patrick scowls at him. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

"My thoughts exactly." Pete yanks him by the t-shirt into another hungry kiss.

And, really, Patrick should take his own damned advice and just stop talking, but he can't seem to shut up. "Um, but. If you're not into the girl panties, why did you—"

Pete shrugs. "I'm into this super cute redhead and whatever _he's_ into."

Patrick blinks. "Wow. That's just…" _Stupidly sweet_. He yanks at Pete's shirt, trying to get it up over his head. "I need to have sex with you right now."

Pete, no shrinking violent, pops the buttons on his jeans and wiggles out of them. "Then you need to get naked." He whips Patrick's t-shirt off, taking his hat with it.

Patrick doesn't need to be told twice. He kicks off his jeans, and they tumble back onto the bed. It's only now that Patrick gets a glimpse of himself in the panties. The black silk makes his skin look pale and waxy. His erection tents the skimpy little scrap of fabric, his dick poking out of it. Okay, so yeah. He looks kind of ridiculous.

Pete doesn't seem to agree. He kneels over Patrick, braced on his arms. His eyes glitter, darker than ever. "First time I saw you. That pretty pink mouth, and good taste in music. And I was just fucking _gone_." He kisses Patrick wetly, thoroughly, licking the roof of his mouth.

Patrick sinks his fingers in Pete's hair and jerks him closer, biting at his lips, because he needs to taste them.

Pete toys with the delicate silk at Patrick's hip. "If this isn't your thing, why'd you wear them?"

"Um, you know, 'cause I thought you—" His eyelids flutter half closed, as if he can hide that way. He's not sure why talking about the panties makes him feel more exposed than lying there in them, spread out beneath Pete.

Pete's mouth curves into a quick, blinding smile. "You are so adorable I just want to eat you up." His voice goes rough and husky, his mouth shiveringly close to Patrick's ear. "Can I, Patrick? Can I eat you up?"

Patrick nods eagerly. Pete kisses him on the tip of his nose and then drags his lips down Patrick's throat and along his sternum. Patrick clutches at Pete's shoulders, fingers pressing into muscle, hoping to leave marks. He wants evidence all over Pete's skin that he was there.

Pete kisses down Patrick's stomach, bites playfully at his belly button, and, okay, maybe the sound that comes out of Patrick when he does that is a little like a squeal. Pete nuzzles Patrick's groin through the panties, breathing in. Patrick scrapes his stubby fingernails over Pete's shoulders, urging him on.

"'s too bad neither of us is into this shit," Pete rubs Patrick's cock with the silk, making Patrick groan out loud, "'cause you look so fucking hot in these." He bends his head and mouths Patrick's balls through the fabric

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Patrick chants.

"Gonna suck you off now," Pete says, nodding his head emphatically.

He slips the panties down over Patrick's hips, and oh fuck, Patrick would not have thought he could get any harder. Pete kneels between Patrick's legs, pushing them wider apart. He kisses Patrick's knee and down the inside of his thigh, licks teasingly at the crease of his leg, and then his mouth settles on Patrick's cock.

Patrick is no untouched virgin—he's sucked and been sucked plenty, thank you very much—but you'd never guess that from his reaction. He thrashes his head on the pillow and bucks up, wanting more, anything, whatever he can get. Pete holds him down and licks leisurely all around the head of his cock. Patrick's thighs tremble. His hand clenches tightly in the bedspread.

"Please." Patrick's voice is a high whine, completely undignified, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Mmm," Pete hums happily, taking Patrick's cock deeper, sucking harder.

Patrick twists his fingers into the soft hair at Pete's nape and leans up, craning his neck to see his cock between Pete's lips. Pete presses his thumb against Patrick's hole, just teasing, not penetrating, but that's more than enough. Patrick gasps roughly and comes in Pete's mouth.

"Trick, Trick," Pete moans, his hand working urgently between his own legs.

Patrick takes a breath, pulling himself back together. "Get up here."

Pete kneels up eagerly. Patrick wraps his hand around Pete's, and together they jerk him off. Pete's tongue peeks out between his lips, wet and pink.

Patrick pushes up onto his elbows and kisses him. "You can come on me,"

Pete bites his lip. "Shit, shit," he says in a rasp. His thighs tense, and his hand stutters on his cock, and a second later come stripes Patrick's belly.

"Fuck." Pete lets out a big breath and slumps onto the bed next to Patrick. "You killed me _dead_, Rickster."

Patrick turns on his side and curls against Pete.

Pete sighs contentedly and slips his arm around Patrick's shoulders. "I did kind of like the idea of being able to share makeup with my boyfriend, but, yeah, this is so much better."

Patrick snorts, because _makeup_, and then his eyes go wide. "Wait. Boyfriend?"

"Oh, hey." Pete threads his fingers through Patrick's hair. "Did I skip the part where I mention that we're totally meant to be and I want to have, like, epic amounts of sex with you and adopt orphans together—or puppies, whatever—when we're older and wiser and have some disposable income besides beer and pizza money?"

Patrick laughs. "Because it's not like that might freak me or anything."

"'course not," Pete says happily. "We're soulmates. There's no freaking out in soulmates. That's totally a rule, dude."

There's something Patrick wants to say, and just thinking it makes his face go hot. He hides against Pete's shoulder and mumbles, "I kind of want to keep the panties."

"Oh, hell yeah." Pete turns on his side toward Patrick, his eyes bright with carnal enthusiasm. "I've got some ideas about that, actually."

By the time Pete Wentz is done with him, no doubt Patrick will have more kinks than he can count. That's not at all what he imagined when he headed off to college.

It's so much better.


End file.
